


In the second we are judged

by sdlucly



Category: The OC
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post Season/Series 04, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:04:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sdlucly/pseuds/sdlucly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The sun is high in the midmorning, Berkeley weather announcing it would be a sunny April day.<br/>"She was just a little girl," Carter says with disgust.<br/>Tony nods. He can relate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the second we are judged

**Author's Note:**

> This is not the first time I've killed one or two characters in this show. It probably won't be the last. Mayor character death off screen. Just so you know. Also, Seth doesn't appear in this short story. He's just a big part of it anyway.

The sun is high in the midmorning, Berkeley weather announcing it would be a sunny April day. The wind is chilly around him, and Tony doesn't know if it's the slow turn into spring or the situation itself. At times like these, Tony thinks he's wrong about what he most believes in: That there is a God out there, that there is good in every evil. That there is someone watching out for those who need to be watched.

He sighs, glancing down at the personnel carefully digging out the bare bones of who once used to be a child. He grimaces as he watches Petersen handing Carter a bag. Carter takes a look at it before shaking his head and handing it to Tony.

Tony takes it with careful fingers, even though the piece of clothing has been bagged and tagged. He swallows as he notices the flowery pattern of the swatch of cloth, of what must have been a dress.

"She was just a little girl," Carter says with disgust.

Tony nods. He can relate.

* * *

Tony glances down at the file one last time before sighing, leaning back against his chair, head tilted back, and closing his eyes. He rubs his eyes with both hands, groans as he sits up straight.

There's a paper plate of French fries by the edge of his desk, his dinner for tonight. He nibbles one, pulling the rest of the crime scene photos closer to him, apparently unmoved by the partially decomposed body recently uncovered in an empty lot behind a condemned building. The signature red ribbon had been found around her ankle, around what was left of muscle and bone.

Victim number six.

He can barely see the restrain marks around both wrists and ankles; he'd have to check with the coroner to make sure. Still, the probabilities are high. Doesn't matter that they hadn't found a fresh body in almost three years, or that the killing spree has apparently ended. That body has to have been there between three or four years. Processing the DNA alone is going to take some time, and it will be worthless unless they have something to compare it with.

"So, I think I found a hit."

"Huh?" Tony looks up at Carter, blinking, eyes clearing from wherever it was he had gone to.

Carter gives him a rueful smile. "I've been checking the missing person's reports, starting three years back. According to the coroner, that kid can't have been more than three, so that narrows it down."

Tony nods. "This guy did prefer his kids young." Five kids sexually assaulted and murdered, from ages four to six found over the course of two years, up until three years and five months ago. Kid number six found this morning by a construction worker.

"Yeah, so. There aren't many missing reports from that time with kids that young, not missing from their home, you know? At least that's a blessing." Carter reads off the information from his computer, and Tony leans forward, tells himself they are actually doing something beside unearthing dead children. "There's this one girl, gone missing November 2009. Two and a half years old. She lived in Berkeley at the time of her abduction."

"She's too young," Tony says, going over the photos. He picks up the one taken today. The picture of the piece of cloth from her dress. It has flowers on it. They might have been a bright color, once upon a time, but now they are dull, almost grey and Tony couldn't even guess what color it used to be.

"She was taken from her backyard in the middle of the afternoon, her mother inside doing the laundry." Carter looks up from his computer, right at Tony. "It fits the MO."

Tony nods. Yeah, it fits the MO alright. This guy had been just a little too good, a little too careful. Taking them from their homes in the middle of the fucking day was showing off. Even then, they had never caught him. Tony sighs. "I guess we can visit the family, see if they could give us something to go on with. DNA will take at least another day. They're backed up."

Carter stands up, picking up the two papers off the printer.

Tony glances at the clock on the wall of the other side of the room. It's almost midnight, and damn it if they haven't made any progress during the day. "In the morning," Tony says with a shrug. No need to go bother the family this late, wake them up. He glances down at the second drawer of his desk. Closed, gun inside. He always keeps his gun there, when he's at the station. "Name?"

"Sophie Cohen." 

* * *

They park outside the last known address, a nice house in the suburbs, with a white fence and a not quite trimmed front yard. Tony can see a backyard going around the house, can see the newly pasted coat of paint, the pulled back curtains.

He pauses in his seat for a minute, file of information on the Cohens open on his lap. There's the glossy picture of Sophie Rose Cohen, Age 2, taken only two months before her abduction. The detective on the case had been thorough, compiling information on the whole family.

Mother, Kirsten Cohen, age 42 at the time of the kidnapping. Father, Sandford Cohen, age 43. Siblings: Seth Cohen, 21 and Ryan Atwood, also 21.

Tony frowns at this bit of information. It's the difference in the name that makes him frown. He wishes he had noticed this back in the office, where he could have done a deeper background check. Nevermind now. Son from a previous marriage, perhaps? Which would explain why Sophie was so young when they already had two adult children.

He gets out of the car, Carter closing the driver's door as he does so. The front yard is green and lush, clean. There are no toys or trikes or bicycles lying around. They probably didn't have any kids after they lost Sophie.

"I don't like this," Tony says, because that's what it feels like it, that's what his gut tells him. He doesn't like the idea of disrupting what little semblance of normalcy this family might have achieved after so many years -- two and a half years is more than enough time for someone to move on, even if the might not want to.

"We haven't found her," Carter says, the set of his mouth grim, frustrated just as well. "We just..."

We're just hashing old wounds, Tony thinks with a bitter taste in his mouth. And that's what they are doing. Nevermind that they have to, because maybe if they find more bodies (more little girls this guy took from the safety of their homes so he could--) then they can find a link between all the victims, something they are missing at the moment, the reason why it's been three years and they haven't found him. And Sophie Cohen might not be the little girl in the flowery dress, but she might be found, soon, and he'd rather...

Tony makes his way up the two steps of the stoop and stands by the front door. It's early, not even eight o'clock; he and Carter are hoping they would run into the parents before going to work. Carter raps the door.

Tony can hear movement from the inside, and less than a minute later the door opens. He had been expecting a forty five year old woman in a rush to get to work, or a man with a cup of coffee in one hand and a briefcase in the other. He wasn't expecting a young man -- a kid, really, what is he, twenty? -- in slack pants and a dress shirt to open the door.

The young man blinks at him, once, twice, then sighs, and his whole face goes from confusion to question to understanding, to relief. Like he had been expecting them, like he was glad they were here. Tony tilts his head, takes notice of the blond hair and dull blue eyes. The kid smiles -- nothing happy about that smile, everything but happy, actually -- and then nods. His face falls into a grimace around the sad smile.

"I've been waiting for you guys," the young man says.

* * *

The house looks warm, lived in. There are flowery drapes on the windows, like the dress, like something a woman, a mother would choose. There are pictures on the mantel of the chimney, in silver frames that later Tony would realize is actual silver. There's the dining room table with a white crotchet table cloth, with no dishes on top but a couple of books and what Tony's pretty sure are blue prints. The living room furniture looks a little bit dirty, the gray color darker on the armrests and the corners.

But what really surprises Tony is that the house is silent.

Carter takes the seat the kid offers, while Tony starts looking closely at the pictures. A little girl, no more than two -- Sophie -- sitting at a pink kid's table with a big smile on her face and a cup of tea in her hand. And there's the kid -- the one that open the door -- on the other seat, another huge smile on his lips, eyes on the girl and not on the camera, matching cup of tea in his hand. Brother and sister; the same shade of blue eyes, the same bright blond hair. Tony places it back in its place and picks up another one.

"Did you find her?"

It's the kid that breaks the ice and Tony turns to look at him, sitting on the couch, head down, laced hands in between his knees. He can't be more than twenty three, twenty four, tops, but he looks fifty in that moment. "Mr. Cohen--"

"Atwood," the kid says, lifting his head slowly, like it weights on him. He blinks at Tony like he can't quite focus on him. "Ryan Atwood."

Tony nods. Son of Kirsten Cohen from a previous marriage, maybe? He looks just like his sister. "Ryan," he says, even though he tends to talk to the family in a more formal voice, but he can't, not with this kid. "You said you've been waiting for us."

Ryan gives him a small smile, nothing but sadness and resignation around it. It's painful to watch. "They took her two years ago." Ryan shrugs, a shake of his head. "I've been waiting for someone to come and tell me they've found her ever since."

Tony closes his eyes briefly, tightens his hold on the fame. He looks down at it. It's a studio picture. Mother and father -- Kirsten and Sanford -- in the back, grinning and smiling, his arm around her shoulders. Both boys, Ryan and Seth, on the sides, Ryan next to his mother, Seth next to his dad. Sophie stands between Ryan and the mother, her hands holding one of each. It's the perfect picture, the perfect family. Tony hates that he has to watch nothing but the remains of that.

"You don't seem to have any hope of finding her alive."

Tony looks up at Carter, who's watching the kid with narrowed eyes. Tact, Carter doesn't possess. 

Ryan snorts, shakes his head again. "She was two and a half when they took her. I just..." He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. Tony wishes he didn't have to do this. "There was no ransom call, barely any evidence. A month later, the detective, Brennan, came over and told us the case had gone cold, that it was going to be filed." He shrugs. "It's not like I don't know why someone would kidnap a two year old."

Tony bites back the desire to wince, because the kid is right. Kids that age... It's better to pray that she died quickly, didn't suffer.

"Did you find her?" Ryan asks again, and Tony can see why he wants an answer. Needs an answer, even if it's bad. That boy has lived with fear in his throat for the past two and a half years. He needs closure so much, Tony's pretty sure he can't think of anything else but that, but his sister.

"We don't know yet," Tony says, and Ryan turns to look at him, blue eyes wide and deep, lips pressed into a thin line. "We found a body."

Ryan sighs, lets it out through barely parted lips. "A body." His hands tighten around each other.

Tony nods. "The MO matches that of five other girls found dead in the area. We think Sophie might fit the profile."

Ryan nods, slowly as if he's trying to process everything, and reach his own conclusion. "Five? A serial killer. Fits the profile? Girl, young, kidnapped from her home?"

Damn, close enough. "The victims were between the ages of four and six, kidnapped from their houses, yeah."

"Sophie was two and a half. Two and five months, actually," Ryan says it like an afterthought. "She used to say she wanted to be two and three quarters." He chuckles softly, a nice laugh. Tony wonders if he used to laugh like that before he lost his sister. "She used to talk out of her elbows. She... she got that from Sandy and Seth. Kirsten and I were the quiet ones in the family."

He thinks this is the best moment to ask the question for which he always would have an answer to, if he had only done his homework. "Kirsten, your mother?"

Ryan doesn't answer for a moment, and then he's shaking his head, lifting his eyes to meet Tony's. "No, my..." He chuckles again, only this time there is real laughter in there, like he's done this a million times and yet he doesn't know how to do this any better. "They were my legal guardians, Kirsten and Sandy. They adopted me when I was fifteen."

Tony nods, feeling like an ass, because, really. Would it have killed them to take five more minutes and run a deeper background check so they don't look like assholes over here? No, not at all. Damn it.

"Seth's their biological son, Sophie was a bit of a surprise. I'm just." Ryan shrugs. "I'm just here."

That's a nonanswer, if he ever heard one. "You look a lot like Kirsten, and Sophie."

Ryan nods, a small smile on his lips. It's nothing but the curl of the corner of his lips, but it's enough. It's a nice smile. "Everyone always said that. When I'd take her out for ice cream, people would think she was my kid."

Tony can see that. Carter clears his throat and Tony rolls his eyes. "Where are the Cohens?" Carter asks, voice heavy, eyes focused solely on Ryan. "We'd like to talk to them."

And just like that, in that second, Tony can see Ryan pulling backwards, into himself, shutting himself in. It's like a door has been closed and Tony is caught outside, under the rain. Ryan blinks, looks down. "They died." 

Really, background check? A total must.

* * *

Tony gets Ryan a glass of water. Why, he isn't sure. He just does. It's what people do, he thinks, getting a glass of water for someone with the nerves. His mom used to do it, at least.

The kitchen has a rectangular table, and there are no tablemats on it. Tony glances at the kitchen island, and he can almost see Ryan having breakfast and dinner here alone. There are faded drawings on the fridge -- pined up by small plastic magnets -- of a house and a sun, of parents and a little girl. One drawing in particular catches his eye. It's of a boy and a girl, holding hands, smiling, all done in bright colors. Ryan and Sophie, Tony thinks, from the shiny yellow color of the hair. The other son, Seth, doesn't appear in any of the childish drawings.

And then there are also the small clues. There are flowery curtains on the kitchen windows, but they've been torn at one point and sewn back together, with too long movements of the needle, as if by a kid who didn't know better. The fridge has very little vegetables, more meat that's easy to fry in a pan, eggs and a couple of TV dinners, just in case. This house is the house of a boy turned man too early before his time. Then again, Ryan said he was fifteen when he was adopted by the Cohens. Tony doesn't know enough about Ryan's original family to judge, but he thinks he knows the type, has seen it enough. Ryan was twenty one when Sophie went missing, but he was probably a man on his own long before that.

Tony walks out of the kitchen and toward the living room, hands Ryan the glass. Ryan barely glances back at him, only takes it in between both hands, lets out a shaky breath.

"How did they die?"

Ryan takes a swallow of the water; Tony takes a seat on the armrest of the couch.

"Kirsten, she..." Ryan closes his eyes briefly and Tony hates himself for having to put the kid through this again. "After Sophie... everything..."

Everything went to hell, Tony thinks, but doesn't say anything. Yeah. He gets that. "Things weren't the same."

Ryan snorts. "Yeah, you can say that. Kirsten, she'd been... she'd been thinking about going back to work. She used to work in construction planning, so maybe something along those lines. But... after that, she just..." Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose again and sighs. "She wouldn't get out of bed. She'd barely leave the house. She was never hungry, she barely ate." He pauses, closes his eyes. "She was crying all the time. Crying." He takes another sip of the water. "That's why we didn't realize... she'd been tired before, _before_ \--" 

Before Sophie was taken, yes.

"She used to say it was her age. She shouldn't be running after a two year old. And then... like, four months after, she was nauseous all the time." He shrugs. "Finally, Sandy forced to go to the doctor. They said it was too late. Ovarian cancer, they said..." 

Shit. Right, because the family hadn't been through enough.

"It was too late. It had already spread to the liver. It was... We tried surgery, but the tumor was too big. They said they couldn't remove it all and..." Ryan closes his eyes, lowers his head. Tony can see Ryan's shoulders trembling, as if he were cold. "She died six months after that."

See, there was a reason, right there, why he didn't want to do this, why he thought this was a bad idea. Damn it, they shouldn't have--

"What about Sanford Cohen?"

This time it's Tony who turns to glare at Carter. God damn, it's one thing the guy has no tact, but come on, the kid just--

Tony can see the way Ryan's jaw clenches, how he straightens just a little bit even as he's sitting down, the set of his shoulders. Damn it. 

"Sandy died three months after Kirsten. Car accident."

Yeah, and that's pretty much all they are going to get out of the kid right now. Carter opens his mouth to ask something else but Tony beats him to it. "I'm sorry," he says, because that's the right thing to say right now. "I'm sorry for... we can't know for sure it's her, not for a couple of days. Not without a DNA match."

Ryan nods slowly, his shoulders easing back a little. "But it could be her. She was a little young for his MO, yeah, but it could..." He swallows thickly. Tony can see how he doesn't know if he wants it to be her or not.

Tony clears his throat, once, twice. They came here for a reason. Not to ask this kid how his adoptive parents died, but how Sophie was kidnapped, to see if he remembered anything. They came here for a reason. And fuck if they aren't going to go through with it.

"I need to ask you about the kidnap, as much as you can remember."

Ryan sighs, ducks his head. The move is boyish and touchingly sincere. And then Tony hears Ryan's voice, and it has nothing of a boy in it. "I wasn't here. I was supposed to be, but I was running late from my lab. I wasn't here; it was just Kirsten. I wasn't here."

* * *

Tony sighs, runs his fingers through his hair. He holds his head in between both hands, closes his eyes and leans forward. He has no idea what else to do. It's one thing when they are going through a current case, where there are witnesses or at least family members. It's another entirely when he's running out of things to do, of clues to follow. It's been one hell of a day.

It's not Ryan's fault that he wasn't there, though the kid sure looked like he blamed himself. The mother, Kirsten, had been inside doing laundry. Sophie, according to Ryan, had been in the backyard, playing with her dolls, having a tea party. Ryan was supposed to be there, but he was late. By the time he arrived, at 5.40pm instead of five, Sophie was gone and Kirsten was having a nervous breakdown even as the cops tried to interview her.

Ryan had told them everything he remembered, everything Kirsten had told the cops that afternoon, everything she had told herself, every single detail she had remembered, run through over and over again in the following weeks. Ryan knew them by heart. It makes Tony grimace, remembering how specific Ryan's recount of that afternoon was. Like he had read it somewhere instead of experienced it, like he had memorized it for posterity. It was creepy.

It didn't help much, though. The detective in charge had used all the available information and had come up with nothing. Tony has no idea why he had thought he could make a bunny appear from a hat. It's two years later and nothing has changed, nothing.

Kirsten Cohen had been in the kitchen, starting dinner. Fridays she always cooked early, because Ryan would come, and she wanted to have something nice for him, something difficult, something that would take her two hours, at least. It had been a quarter to five and Sophie had just gone outside. Kirsten had looked out the window, Sophie sitting safely in the backyard, at the pink plastic child table that had been a birthday present not even five months before. Sophie had sat with a pink plastic cup in one hand, a plastic tea kettle in the center of the table. There were cookies on a plate. She had been waiting for Ryan to get back from school to play with her, like she did every Friday. Kirsten had smiled at her child and told her she'd be right inside and Ryan shouldn't take long. Sophie had laughed, Kirsten remembered, Ryan remembered. Sophie had laughed and said that it was okay if Ryan was late, he'd let her have his cookie as an "I'm sorry."

Kirsten had gone inside to take the laundry out of the washing machine and put it into the dryer. She had wanted to be done with the load that night, because she had insisted on Ryan bringing in his laundry so she could do it on Saturday morning, bright and early. If he had noticed that she had to do another load apart from his, he would have refused the following week. She had known her son that well. Tony thinks that's another reason Ryan chooses to blame himself.

She couldn't have been inside more than fifteen minutes. She had made her way back to the kitchen looking out into the backyard. Sophie hadn't been there anymore.

Sophie hadn't been there anymore

It was 5.15pm. Ryan had arrived half an hour later.

Kirsten had gone to the backyard, thought maybe Sophie was, well, she hadn't know what. Kirsten had then gone back into the house, thinking maybe Sophie had gone inside, to the bathroom. She had looked on both floors, in all three bathrooms, under the beds like an idiot -- Ryan's words from Kirsten's mouth. She'd gone outside in a frenzy by then. The front yard was empty. Kirsten had gone to the neighbors, ask if they had seen Sophie. Nothing. She'd asked around, and nothing. Not ten minutes later she'd gone back to the house called the police.

Kirsten said they arrived not two minutes before Ryan. Detective Brennan was trying to interview her, but she'd been crying too hard. Two other uniforms were interviewing the neighbors.

It had started to get dark when Ryan arrived. He'd parked his car behind a black and white; he had had to shove a uniform to make his way through.

"Kirsten," he'd called, when he saw her standing before the front door, arms around her waist, crying almost silently.

She had looked up at him, seen him, and thrown herself into his arms as soon as he was in reach. She had started sobbing on his shoulder. Ryan hadn't understood a word she told him in that moment. He had only hugged her tight and kept asking her what was wrong.

It had been Ryan who called Sandy. Ryan had called Seth later that night as well. They all had waited for a ransom call for days. It never came.

Three weeks later the case still had no leads and was put in the backburner.

Tony has never hated his profession as much as he does right now. That family lost a child and there was nothing that could be done. Nevermind that two and a half years ago Tony was working out in Baltimore, but in this moment, he hates himself as well.

With a sigh, he looks down at the file before him. Ryan Atwood's juvenile file. It was supposed to be expunged, but you gotta love hard copies and knowing a person or two here and there. Grand Theft Auto pleaded to a misdemeanor because the kid was fifteen and it was actually his brother who was driving, not him. The brother, Trey, according to another file, had pot in him and a record. He ended up doing two years instead of three. Lucky bastard.

There is more information in Ryan's file, like an arrest for arson that was dropped. The adoption was filed not a month afterwards. Very few visits were made from the social worker, and he can almost understand. A kid like him in a family like that, well, one hopes and prays everything works out in the end. Hell, as long as the kid isn't doing manual labor or doing the floors and windows, most social workers are happy. 

Research told him that the kid ended up going to Berkeley. Started in the fall of 2007, finished in spring of 2012. A year later than he should have been, graduating as a Civil Engineer, but with a good enough average to get a decent sounding job at a local construction company. He's been working there the past six months. Tony sighs and leans back against his chair. It doesn't say which semesters he lost and there is no information on why he lost them, but he has an idea. He probably dropped out of school when his mother got sick, and maybe after Sandford's death, he wasn't feeling up to school. He might have taken only a few courses, slowing him down another semester. Or it was something entirely different and Tony has no way of finding out unless he asks him.

"Okay, so, remember how the kid said there was a car accident?"

Tony blinks himself out of his stupor, turning to look at Carter. Damn, how long was he out, that Carter's grinning back at him. "Yeah?"

"Well, it was his car alright." Carter looks up at him. "Accident, not so much."

Tony frowns, standing up as he does so. He makes his way around his desk to Carter's and perches himself on the edge of the desk. There's the coroner's report of one Sandford T. Cohen, found dead on December 21st, 2010. He crashed his car around a light post. Tony blinks and clicks on the picture of the crime scene. The whole front side of the sedan has sunk into itself, like a piece of paper gripped in a tight fist. He hopes Mr. Cohen died on impact.

"That's not all." Tony turns to look at Carter, who lifts one eyebrow and then clicks back on the report, moving the mouse so Tony can read the part where it says, clear as day, that Mr. Cohen's alcohol level was at 0.21.

"Shit," Tony curses under his breath, because the legal content of alcohol in the great state of California is 0.08%. "Shit."

No wonder the kid clamped up when they asked about Sandford--Sandy. It wasn't bad enough to lose his sister, then ten months later lose his mother. Mr. Cohen probably couldn't take one loss so close after another. Tony has seen stronger men turn to the bottle in less tragic scenarios. If it was intentional or not, they might never know. One thing is for sure, it was one hell of a year for that family.

"Shit pretty much sums it up," Carter says with a lift of his brow and a sigh. "The kid had to bury his adoptive father before Christmas. That's gotta fuck you up really good."

Tony nods, leaning back a little on his seat. He can feel a headache coming in between his eyes, right behind his nose. Because, shit on a stick, that kind of thing can totally fuck you up. Sister, mother, father. All lost within a year. Fuck, really.

"Yeah," he says finally, turning to look at Carter looking back at him with something akin to compassion toward this kid. "That certainly does."

* * *

The phone rings and Tony picks it up before it rings again, hands still flying over the keyboard. 

"Elliot." He holds the phone in between ear and shoulder, trying his best to get this report out. He's behind in paperwork as it is. It's these moments, mornings when he can't deal with how slow a case is going and can't face taking another, that help catch up on it.

_"Well, hello Detective"_

Tony sits up straighter for a second, hands stilling over the keyboard. "You better have something for me, Greg."

The man on the other end of the line falls quiet for a second. Tony hates it when Greg goes all quiet on him. _"I just might."_

"Might?"

Greg sighs. Tony can feel himself tense even more. _"I'm not sure if it's bad news or good news."_

"Spill," Tony says, serious all of a sudden.

_"The DNA you asked me run, remember? The Red Ribbon case?"_

"Yeah, yeah, you got it?" Ryan had given them Sophie's hairbrush with enough hair in there for a decent DNA sample. Tony had gone upstairs with him and walked into the little girl's room. It looked like the two year old had just stepped outside for a moment, to play with a doll or on her trike. It certainly didn't look like she'd been missing for two and a half years. The room even smelled clean, with a touch of perfume in the air. "Greg, if you don't tell me right now--"

_"It's not a match. The sample you gave me, from the hairbrush, isn't a match to the body found. Tony? Tony?"_

Tony sighs, leaning his head forward until his forehead is touching the edge of the desk. He can feel something grow inside him, and like Greg said, he doesn't know if it's good or not.

It's not Sophie Cohen, that's all he knows.

* * *

It's the sound of the file hitting the desk that makes Tony look up from the three year old report, eyes blinking rapidly. He looks at Carter, who looks like he's had better days. Fuck, better weeks.

"This case is going nowhere."

Tony would glare at Carter if he wasn't feeling just as shitty as the older man. "Yeah, well."

There's not much he can say. Without a sample to match the body against, even after running it through the system and having come up empty, there's really not much more they can do. It was one more body, yes, with the red ribbon around the ankle, yes, but the trail ends there. No witnesses, not more evidence, nothing.

They've spent the past two days going over old missing children reports, trying to find one that might fit the MO as close Sophie Cohen did, and so far they've come up empty handed. They found more than enough girls in between ages of four and six, but none of them taken from their homes. Going through all of the California files it's going to take them sometime, and even then, they fear they might still come up empty. Fuck.

"You know what this means, right?" Carter asks, lifting one eyebrow. Tony doesn't need him to say it, but he's going to anyway. "In a couple of days, if we're still chasing out tails, we're going to have to--"

"--file it, yeah." Tony groans, leaning forward, elbow on the edge of the desk, forehead in his hands. "Damn it, I know. We can't, though. We have to at least find out who that little girl is, if maybe Sophie Cohen--"

Carter gives Tony a look that makes him pause, then a jerk of his head toward his back, to the entry of the bullpen. 

Tony frowns, but turns around in time to see Ryan Atwood standing in the doorway of the bullpen, hands tight around each other. Right, because Tony wasn't feeling shitty enough today--

"Mr. Atwood," Tony says, standing up. For a second he feels the need to call him Mr. Cohen, but bites his tongue just in time. Tony makes his way to him, nodding at Ryan as he does so. "Please."

Ryan nods back at him, making his way to Tony's desk. Tony pulls back the chair for him, glancing at Carter briefly. Carter shrugs with one shoulder. Yeah, well, Tony doesn't have any idea why Ryan's here either. 

"Mr. Atwood--"

"I know I shouldn't have come," Ryan says, voice soft and light, head down.

Tony wonders if this Ryan's default setting, head down and quiet. He wonders if Ryan used to smile and laugh, head thrown back. He wonders if Ryan used to be happy, once upon a time, before he lost his family. "It's okay," Tony says after a moment. "I should have contacted you before."

Ryan shakes his head. "I just... I needed to know."

Tony sighs, because damn it, he should have contacted the kid the moment he knew the results, not wait two days for the kid to come himself. "I'm sorry," he says, starts to say, watches the way Ryan's eyes pinch at the edges, how his lips press tightly against one another. This kid is certain that little girl is his sister and he needs to hear the words so he can finally bury a body. "I'm sorry, but it's not Sophie."

A sound makes its way out of Ryan's tightly pressed lips, a keening sound, like a whimper. Tony closes his eyes briefly before watching Ryan nodding, hiding his face in both hands, head lowered.

God, and this right here? Yeah, this right here is why his mom kept telling him to become an accountant. You don't have to tell your clients it's not their missing sister, not as an accountant.

Tony's hand settles on Ryan's shoulder, squeezes gently. "Mr. Atwood, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, I know--"

Ryan lets his hands fall to his lap, lifts his head slowly. Tony pulls back his hand as Ryan tilts his head back, eyes closed. His cheeks are dry, Tony notices. Ryan takes in a shallow breath before opening his eyes and turning to look at Tony. "I just... I just wanted it to be over, you know? I just... God, I just wanted it to be over."

Tony nods, numbly, even though he can't even imagine what this kid must have been feeling, to want that body to be his sister's so badly. He nods again, wordlessly. 

I'm sorry, he opens his mouth to say, out of personal need more than for Ryan. He doesn't. Ryan doesn't need to hear stupid platitudes.

"She used to call me Dayan, did I tell you that? She used to laugh all the time. She used to--"

Ryan's voice goes quiet in a second, like someone had turned off a switch. Tony glances at Carter, and Carter shrugs. Ryan smiles like it's more of a grimace. Tony wants to say he's so sorry, so very sorry, his throat aches. 

Before Tony can gather words around him, Ryan's standing up, giving him a tight smile. The kid is twenty five, not even a kid anymore, not really, but Tony can't help but feel so much older than him, though ten years isn't as much as it would seem.

"I should go," Ryan says, looking at Tony and Carter before turning around, looking away. "I'm sorry to have bothered you."

Tony shakes his head and watches Carter do the same. "No, it's fine, kid."

Ryan turns to look at him for a moment, eyes sharp and focused, and Tony would grimace if he didn't know not to. What was he saying? Right, the kid is not really a kid! Ryan looks at him for a second longer before sighing, dropping his eyes once again. Whatever it is Ryan thought, felt, whatever, it's long gone now and Tony has no idea what it was about.

"Thanks," Ryan says one last time before walking away, and Tony stands there, just watching him.

"It wasn't his sister," Carter says, stating the fucking obvious.

Tony can feel his jaw tighten. We need to find her, he thinks, he wants to say. We need to. Only that's stupid, and close to impossible, because that body will be found when it wants to be found, not before. This isn't a TV show where a groove in the bone or sediment in the soil will tell them anymore about the killer than they already know. Because no matter how many times he goes over the missing child investigation of Sophie Cohen, no matter how many times he goes back to the crime scene, it will not yield anymore than he already knows. This is life, and here, more than one case goes unsolved and stays that way.

Tony closes his eyes for a moment before sitting back on his chair, sighs and picks up the crime scene photos, five victims then, one more now.

* * *

Because this is real life, the trail goes cold. Again. After days of doing nothing but going over the original Red Ribbon file, after going over it, over and over again, the coroner's report of then and now, nothing. Fucking nothing. 

There's no DNA to match the new body with, there are no more clues except the red ribbon around her ankle, the pieces of cloth that once used to be her dress, the coroner's conclusion that she must have been sexually assaulted. A week after the body is found, LAPD ends up calling the FBI. Tony doesn't like it, hates himself a little bit for that, for not being able to handle it on his own, but damn it, they just don't have the man power for this, the technology. The FBI does, they can do something about it. Maybe find out who that little girl is, maybe.

For a second, Tony thinks about mentioning Sophie Cohen. Only, there's nothing to mention. They checked out a lead; it turned out to be a dead end. It wasn't that little girl. It wasn't, they don't need to know that. So Tony doesn't tell them.

Where it goes from there, Tony isn't sure. He knows the file ends up being sent over to Quantico, no longer his business, and not an hour after he's finished boxing up the last transcription of his notes, there's a call to the Mayor Crimes unit, a new body found, a new case to go over. This one is more up their alley, more something they can actually probably maybe fix, solve. 

It takes them two weeks and four days to find out who burned a woman (Caroline Abby, forty three, divorced, two kids), alive, how they did it and why. Matthew Epps is going to rot in hell for years to come, and Tony hopes someone makes him their bitch the moment he walks into the high security prison. He hopes Epps screams the way Caroline screamed her throat off.

They get two more cases after that, back to back. Carter starts complaining about his ulcer, once again, and Tony tells him well, if he were to start eating better... Not that it's easy in their profession, of course, but one too many burgers and one too many lose killers will do that to you. They solve the first case, a decent stand up guy shot to death in an alley, not a single witness. It's a lucky break, Tony knows, but he's thankful for it. Too many open cases, well, it has a way to bring the morale down. They find a decomposed body afterwards. A woman, later thirties from what the coroner can tell. They try to find out who hit her with something sharp in the back of her neck but run out of leads. They end up shipping the body to Washington for the scientific types to figure out something more.

After that, they find another body. Seventeen year old girl, raped and murdered. Tony hates the asshole the second he sees the body. The kid was a runaway, but it doesn't take them long to find her in the database because she was in the system.

Tony and Carter go to talk with her last foster mother who had her until a year and a half ago, when Wendy Vizza packed up her things and left. Ms. Montenegro is a fifty five year old woman who moves slow and serves them tea and places before them a plate of cookie. She smiles like she has known them all their lives.

"Ms. Montenegro," Carter says, sitting on one of the couches in the living room, thanking her for the tea but not drinking it. He's a coffee kind of guy.

Tony smiles at her, takes a cookie but doesn't sit down. He glimpses at the picture frames on the mantel, on the corner tables. Lots of children, either playing or studying or eating, smiling and laughing, Mss. Montenegro with them in some of those pictures, looking happy and proud.

"We need to ask you about Wendy."

"I feel like this is my fault."

Tony watches her nod out of the corner of her eye. He picks up a picture of Wendy with two little boys, smiling, looking so happy. He can't correlate that Wendy with the body they found.

"Why?"

"I told Wendy that my diabetes was getting worse, that soon I wouldn't be able to take care of her and Samuel and Theo. Not even a week later, she left."

Tony hears the interview with half an ear, trying to read something else in between. Maybe that's why it takes him a minute to blink, to focus on one of the pictures. He frowns, picking it up. Two little girls, one no more than four, the other around ten, are standing together. The older girl is smiling, a bright ball underneath one arm. The other one isn't smiling. She's barely looking at the camera. Rather, she has her head half ducked, hair covering one cheek. Tony blinks again because he's seeing things, he must be, because he could have sworn... He's seen those eyes before, that hair, that chin, those lips. He's seen all of those characteristics and found it very peculiar that Kirsten Cohen would look so similar to her adoptive son. 

He swallows and turns around, frame still in his hands. "Excuse me," he says, cutting off Mss. Montenegro in her explanation of Wendy's behavior when she first came to live with her. Carter glares at him, but he takes no notice. "I'm sorry," he says, making his way to her, showing her the frame in his hands. "What's her name, the little girl?"

"Elizabeth?" Mss. Montenegro says, frowning, nodding at the picture. "God, she was the sweetest little girl. Quiet as a mouse, really. No problem at all. Now, Sarah, she's the one with the volley ball, now she was a handful."

"Did she...?" Tony clears her throat, has no idea how to ask what he wants to ask. Carter looks worried, like Tony's having a nervous breakdown or something. "How did she come to live with you?"

"Oh. Her mother died, overdosed in antidepressants, I think. Her dad... poor guy. His wife dies and he just couldn't take it. Elizabeth was only four at the time. She went into the system then." Mss. Montenegro nods, smiling at Tony. "She should have been adopted, but she was always too introverted, too quiet. Couples worry about it, think the child might have problems connecting. I can't fault them, not really. Elizabeth would always like to be on her own, in her room, going over her coloring books or just watching the street, the cars go by." She looks up at Tony, biting her lower lip. "I thought she needed more attention, more than I could give her with five other kids, you know? She was moved to a home with kids with special needs."

Tony nods, thanks her, going over the information in his head. "Elizabeth, you said?"

"Yeah, Elizabeth Hodge."

Tony turns to look at Carter, who has one eyebrow raised and a million questions in his eyes. Tony shakes his head minutely. Carter sighs, but continues asking her about Wendy.

Ten minutes later, when they are leaving the house, Carter asks what he's been dying to ask. "What the hell was that, Tony?"

Tony sighs, picture in hand, because Mss. Montenegro said he could take it, as long as he made sure to give it back. Tony opens the driver's door, gets in. He places the frame in the glove compartment, going over the little girl's face in his mind, making sure he's not seeing things. He thinks he isn't, but he wants to be sure. 

"Tony?'

"I'm not sure, okay? But I think..." Tony sighs again, turns to look at Carter in the eye. God, this isn't gonna fly well at all. "I think it might be Sophie Cohen." 

* * *

Carter doesn't know, couldn't be sure. He had seen the pictures in the Cohen house, yeah, and he had kind of glanced at the one where Kirsten had Sophie in her arms, barely a baby, but doesn't remember the shade of eyes, or how blonde her hair was.

For a moment Tony thinks he's imagining things. He felt guilty for hashing up old wounds and not even being able to give the kid some closure. Yes, he might still feel slightly guilty -- a lot guilty. But that doesn't mean he's going to start making up stuff, right? Seeing similarities where there are none. No, he might be weird, but he's just not that crazy.

Tony watches Carter pull up the coroner's report once again while he starts looking for Elizabeth Hodge in the system. It doesn't take him long to find her. She's in a home that has experience dealing with kids with special needs. He has no idea what that means, but it doesn't sound very nice. The file says she turned five two months ago. There's a current picture in the file and Tony stares at it for minutes, thinking that yeah, he's seen those cheekbones and those eyes and no, he's pretty sure he's not imagining things.

Either way, he tells Carter that he's got a thing to do and Carter rolls his eyes at him and tells him not to get suspended, let alone transferred, he's already broken him in. Tony rolls his eyes but tells Carter he won't take long. He won't. All he needs is a couple of hairs from Elizabeth's hairbrush and a DNA match. Nothing else.

He parks the car outside the house, in a not so nice neighborhood. For a second he considers the ramifications of what he's about to do. What if he's totally off the mark? What if he's only seeing things, seeing what he wants to see? He tells himself he's not, he's not that much of an idiot, but God, really, it's tempting. It really is.

He takes in a shallow breath and lets it out slowly through his mouth. It's not or never and if he screws up, well, you know what? This just might totally be worth it.

All the kids are in school. They might have "special needs" -- and again with that word, even if he has no idea what exactly is meant by it -- but they do go to school. Except one of them, Matthew, who has a mild case of autism. Tony glances at him, sitting in the middle of the living room, putting one block on top of another, not reacting to anything that's said around him.

Mrs. Braun gives Tony a small smile, but she can't help but ask what this is about. He understands. If all her kids are like Matthew, then of course she has to ask. He doesn't want to tell her much, sees no point in giving the woman hope, in giving the kid hope, just in case he's totally off the mark here.

"I..." Tony says, after some hesitation. He clears his throat. "I've found some evidence regarding Elizabeth but I don't think it would be right to divulge at the moment."

It's enough misdirection and obfuscation that the woman narrows her eyes but nods after a second. He follows her as they make their way to the second floor of the house. The house is big and it might hold that homier feeling if the walls weren't painted the exact shade of every other hospital in the state, and if there were toys scattered around the floor instead of nothing but rooms with four beds each one.

"How many kids live here?" He asks before he can stop himself, and Mrs. Braun answers truthfully. "Eleven."

Tony nods but doesn't want to think more about it, about how they fit eleven kids in three bedrooms and how Mrs. Braun picks up Elizabeth's hairbrush from one vanity had holds a only a handful of things in a room that has two sets of bunk beds. The brush is purple and it has the print of a small butterfly on the corner of the handle.

He nods his thanks and asks her to please not tell Elizabeth any of it, not until--

Mrs. Braun nods, a sad smile on her lips. "These kids, detective, they'd rather not dream. It's a harsh reality, but the only one they've got."

Tony feels something go cold in his chest but understands her and leaves without asking anything else of the woman. When he gets back into his car, he sits behind the wheel for a moment and takes in a deep breath. The brush sits on the passenger seat inside an evidence bag, sitting, waiting. He tells himself he's not imagining things, he isn't. He's just afraid he might.

Three days later, Tony sits down slowly at his desk, his flank hurting, and he knows he'll feel it even worse tomorrow. Shit, he might not even manage to stand up tomorrow. That son of a bitch, stupid drug dealer could certainly run. Somewhere along the fifteen blocks they chased him, he pulled something.

Carter doesn't complain as he sits down, but Tony can hear him hiss and he smiles, because if it hurt him, then Carter's certainly feeling it. Ten years on Tony aren't worth nothing . He clicks on his computer, checks his inbox, and he can feel himself going still for a second, pain receding to the back of his mind. It's an email from Greg (email, because this isn't a case and this isn't official and he most certainly didn't order a DNA test on something he doesn't really have) on a Tuesday night like any other. He looks down at the printed letters and numbers and thinks he might weep. 99.9 percent match.

* * *

When Tony looks up at Carter, he doesn't say a word. He doesn't need to. The result must be visible on his face, because Carter sighs but nods, a small smile on his face. Tony doesn't know how to feel. 99.9 percent match. That's as perfect as it gets. That's... that means he wasn't wrong. That means he found her.

He closes his eyes and leans his head forward, forehead against the results on top of his desk, eyes closed. _God._

He doesn't want to go unprepared this time around. He did that once and he made an ass out of himself with Ryan, he's just not doing it again. So he lifts his head from his desk and clears his throat and does his job. He needs to find out as much as humanly possible about Elizabeth Rose Hodge. If the middle name was taken from the original or just a coincidence, Tony really doesn't want to know.

A little under an hour later, he closes the file and stands up, picking up his jacket from the back of the chair. "You coming with me?" He asks Carter, because he thinks he has to, and maybe because a part of him wishes he didn't have to do this alone.

Carter smiles at him, friendly and relaxed, like Tony's only seen him a handful of times. "Nah," he says, leaning back against his chair. "You did this, Tony. You got so invested in this, I thought you were gonna crash and burn." He sighs for a second, smile a little bit wider. "I'm glad you didn't."

Tony feels something pull at his insides, and his mouth turns into a tight smile. He nods shakily. "Thanks."

* * *

He parks his car outside the Cohen household, glancing at the wide opened curtains, the neatly mowed lawn. There are at least another ten people he should notify before even thinking about talking with Ryan but by God, that kid has been waiting for two and a half years to find his sister, one way or another. Tony doesn't think he can leave him in the dark for another fucking day.

The light in the living room is turned off, the house almost entirely dark. Tony can see the ghost of a light coming from inside, and for a moment he thinks he can imagine Ryan in the kitchen, leaning against the side of the sink, plate in hand going cold as the minutes tick by. It's a sad thought, it's a lonely thought, but Tony thinks he's more right than wrong.

He sighs and with one hand curled tightly around the file, he opens the driver’s door and slams it closed with his elbow before losing his nerve. He walks toward the front door, eyes glancing at his sides, at the grass starting to get too tall, too unkempt. He knocks on the door with his left hand, his right hand still holding the file.

He can hear the movement inside, not in the living room but further away. The dining room table that was filled with blue prints? The kitchen, perhaps? A moment later there's Ryan opening the door. Ryan raises an eyebrow in silent question and Tony swallows back the words threatening to spill from his lips. 

"Detective Elliot?" Ryan says, taking a step back and indicating for Tony to enter. 

Tony gives Ryan a small smile, a tentative smile, before walking in. He looks around. There's the kitchen light on, and the dining room table still filled with blueprints and a messenger bag resting on top of the same. It makes something tighten inside him.

He turns around, looking at Ryan. Ryan tilts his head to the side. "I'm sorry, is there something--?"

Tony opens his lips. This is it, he thinks, fleetingly and rather dramatically. This is it. This is...

"Detective," Ryan says when Tony just stands there, words caught in his throat. "I know it was stupid of me to go to the police station, but I--"

"I found her," Tony says, finally, whispers roughly because he can feel his throat closing up and the back of his eyes starting to prickle. 

Ryan blinks at him. Tony wonders if Ryan thinks he's being mocked or played a horrible, horrible prank on. He doesn't say anything. Tony doesn't blame him.

"I found her," Tony says again, and this time he has to bite on his lower lip because, fuck, he didn't know it could hurt like this, finding hope even if it's not for himself. He offers the file in his right hand, everything he was able to find about Elizabeth Rose Hodge and to hell with propriety or procedure. "She's alive."

Ryan looks at Tony, at Tony's eyes, straight at him. Ryan blinks, once, twice, and then his face is contorting in pain and sorrow and his left hand moves to cover his mouth, and Ryan falls to his knees as if relief is too exhausting to bare. He sobs into his hands, a keening sound like a dying animal, a not quite bitten back scream in his throat, his right hand reaching forward, as if trying to hold onto something that's no longer there. He bends at his waist, falling forward, hand still clamped tight over his mouth even though it does little to keep the pain inside. He contorts like his stomach aches. Maybe his whole body aches, Tony thinks detachedly.

Tony wants to reach out but doesn't know how. This is Ryan's pain being let out. This is almost three years of suffering finally finding release. Tony doesn't think anything he could do would help.

He stands there for the longest time.

* * *

It's the bureaucracy of the thing that makes him want to either shot somebody or just take Sophie -- Elizabeth, she answers to Elizabeth, the few times she answers at all -- back and hand her to Ryan. 

It takes them five days, a reprimand from his superior that is not going to make its way into his permanent file out sheer compassion for the situation, one too many blood tests from the little girl who only looks down and away, the DA and the Cohen's lawyer, two different child psychologist visitations and one very stressed out big brother before Ryan is allowed to see Sophie. Tony had been all for taking Ryan to the foster house and letting him hold his little sister, but if he had known he was in deep shit the moment he went to Ryan's house with the file before telling anyone about it, he knew he'd never see the light of day if he took Ryan there.

Tony takes another step down the hallway before turning around, to continue his pacing. He glances toward Ryan, running his thumb over the fingers of his opposite hand, his lawyer standing by his side, waiting for their case worker. They've been waiting for almost twenty minutes now, in the Child Services building, to finally be granted the permission to see Sophie. If they are kept waiting much longer, Tony isn't sure who will break first, Ryan or him.

He stops his pacing and glances up as he hears someone walking down the hallway toward them. And yeah, that's Mrs. Fillon alright, the woman from Child Services assigned to this case, making her way toward them. If this was any other case, Tony knows he would have long ago let the wheels keep turning and maybe in a week or two, call someone who could tell him what happened in the end. But this is no other case, this is _his_ case, this is the young boy who went to the station to ask about his little sister, and Tony doesn't think he could let this one go so easily.

The woman greets all three of them before nodding for them to follower her, making her way to the elevators. "Elizabeth's waiting for us," Mrs. Fillon says as they get inside, pressing 5 without stopping her explanation. "I'll go in with you. You can talk with her for a little while. We've already tried to explain to her the situation, but we're not sure just how much she understands."

Tony turns to look at Ryan, nodding, listening to Mrs. Fillon, but his eyes are glued to the numbers going up and up. Tony knows the kid's not quite hearing her words. All Ryan probably hears is Elizabeth -- they've been referring to Elizabeth, this whole time, because that's the name she responds to, never mind what she was called before she was taken -- and that she's waiting for them, for Ryan.

"Mr. Atwood, did you hear me?" 

Ryan nods again, before turning to look at her and nod. "Yeah, I heard."

"I know this is difficult for you--"

Tony is the one that snorts, Tony, and Ryan glances at him from the corner of his eyes, gives him the curl of the corner of his lips. Tony grins back at him, and it's too little a consolation, not enough of a comforting hand. And he hates this to have to watch this young boy have to go through this alone.

He had asked Ryan, a few days ago, if there may be someone they could call. A grown up, Tony couldn't help but think. Or maybe the other Cohen son, Seth. Ryan had just shaken his head, said that it was okay. Seth was in Providence, Ryan had said, and this was the first time Ryan had mentioned Seth Cohen. Tony wondered what had happened afterwards, after the death of both their parents for them to look so estranged to the untrained eye. Ryan said that Seth had a life there, in Providence, he had a good job and a good life. And it was the tone that Ryan used, that made Tony wondered if they had so much as said two words to one another since they buried their father. Ryan said he could do this, but Tony wishes Ryan didn't have to do it alone.

The elevator doors open and Ryan is the first one out, turning to look at the hallways on both right and left, and the one in between. Mrs. Fillon takes the one on the left, and Tony and Ryan and the lawyer follow. She pauses before a door, and Tony can hear Ryan's harsh intake of breath before his lips are pressed into a thin line. 

"I'll go in with you," Mrs. Fillon says, and Ryan nods and nods, and Tony wonders if there's something she could say that the poor kid might refuse to. "We want to keep things as simple as possible for her. We've only explained that there's someone who wants to see her. We haven't told her anything about the kidnapping or who she believes to be her parents."

Ryan nods, and Tony can understand. The girl is only five years old.

"I'd rather you wouldn't--"

Ryan nods again, and whispers, "I just wanna see her."

Mrs. Fillon seems taken back by Ryan's raw honesty, and Tony watches her swallow thickly. The kid has been waiting to see his little sister for the past five days, the past three years. Tony thinks he himself would have been a mess by this point.

The woman nods before pushing open the door. Ryan closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath and then following her inside. Tony stands outside that door a second.

"We can watch from here," the lawyer says, and Tony turns around, surprised that he had forgotten the man was there. Tony nods, following the guy into a small room by the side of the door Ryan has walked through. There's a one way mirror, and Tony gasps as he sees a little girl sitting at a children's table, teddy bear on her lap, crayon in her hands. That's Sophie, alright. Her blonde hair is short, very short, too short for a girl. Her head is down and sideways to the mirror, so Tony can't quite see her face, but by God, he thinks he could have recognized her anywhere. She's the spitting image of Kirsten Cohen, and she looks so much like Ryan himself, Tony wonders how someone didn't notice it before.

Ryan's standing a few feet away from her, and Tony can see the way Ryan's hands tremble before being clasped in one another tightly.

The lawyer presses the speaker button and Tony thinks that it looks so much like an interrogation room that it's chilling.

There's silence for a moment, Sophie is just coloring and Ryan is standing there, not quite moving, with the case worker standing unconstructively to the side. 

Tony doesn't hear Ryan swallow, but watches the bob of his Adam's apple before Ryan makes his way to the children's table. He doesn't say anything, just takes a seat. Not quite close to Sophie but not too far away either.

"Hey," Ryan says, and Tony swallows thickly in anticipation.

Sophie doesn't say anything. She doesn't even look up from her colors.

"That's... that's really nice. What is it?"

Sophie doesn't answer, and Tony's starting to think that maybe they are doing this all wrong. Maybe they should have waited until she had the suggested therapy before introducing her to Ryan all over again. The psychologist said that it wasn't recommended, but the lawyer had pressed and Child Services took that into consideration, how the girl had been deprived a normal childhood for three years already, how it would be cruel to continue to do so when her family had been found. In that moment, Tony had agreed wholeheartedly. Now? He isn't so sure.

He wants to open his mouth and say something. What, he isn't sure. Something. Anything. Something along the lines of "you gotta do something" or "this is wrong, even if it's right it's wrong" or maybe "he can't do this yet, she's not ready; neither of them are ready", and maybe one of those things his lips were ready to say when his mouth opens, but the next thing he does is not say something but watch. Watch Ryan tilt his head and look at Sophie and the two of them just sit there, one looking at the younger sibling he'd thought he'd lost and the other just looking at the pencils in her hands.

He doesn't know how long he watches -- not long, he tells himself, he can't have been standing there not doing anything for long -- before Ryan sighs and lowers his head a little bit more, a lot more -- tiredly, tired is how Ryan looks -- and then Sophie pauses in her contemplation of her pencils and looks up. Up and up and up, up at Ryan. Tony blinks. He can imagine Ryan holding his breath, as if awaiting trial by Sophie's eyes. Probably even be sure he would be found lacking.

Sophie blinks at him and Tony waits for something to give, but then Sophie blinks again and looks down at her lap, picks up her teddy in too small hands and makes it sit on her lap, like her baby.

Ryan smiles at her, and Tony wants to say that he sees a man sitting there, but all he can see is a too scared boy watching a terrified little girl.

"That's," Ryan starts, his voice cracking. He clears his throat before starting again. "That's a nice teddy bear you have there."

Sophie doesn't say anything, doesn't even look in Ryan's direction. Tony can feel something in him crack slightly. Because this little girl might be too broken, some little piece might have been left behind in that house she was taken to, in that foster home. The pieces might never fit the same way again. Being in the system for two years can do that to you, when you're so young. Or maybe something happened before, in that Hodge's guy house. Maybe something happened and now she--

"His name is Dayan."

Tony blinks, looks up at her with wide open eyes and he can see in Ryan's profile that he's as surprised as Tony is himself. He can feel his pulse beating in his neck and his hands suddenly feel cold. Holy shit. It can't be. It can't possibly be. Sophie was only two years old when--

But she does. She might not remember everything, but she remembers something, only a ghost of a memory but enough to--

Enough to name her teddy bear the same moniker she used for her big brother.

Ryan blinks again and Tony can see from where he's standing that there are tears in eyes.

"Really?" Ryan is smiling at her like she hangs the moon, like he's been looking for her for the past two and something years and he has finally found her. Ryan is smiling at her like he can finally be happy. "That's... that's nice. Really nice." He pauses, smiles at her some more. Tony can see tears running down his cheeks, and Tony's heart breaks all over again. "My name is Ryan."

**Author's Note:**

> September 15, 2009.
> 
> This story started with the idea of the scene where Tony tells Ryan that he found Sophie. Plain and simple. I just needed 11k to say my piece. I still think it needs a sequel. At some point, I just might write it. Thank you.


End file.
